Three Player Game

by Jaime Samms

  Vince let out a squeak as the trunk popped open right next to him. He looked up, and Pete waved. The grin that spread over Vince’s face was as warm as the sun, and a glow of appreciation bloomed in Pete’s chest. Vince had been looking so much happier the last little while. Sure, he’d worked like a dog all week, but he’d been humming to the music on his headset and bopping his head to the beat.

  He set his bags in the trunk, closed the car, then jogged over to Pete. “You ready to do this?” he asked, taking out his phone and bringing up the list Lee had given them.

  “Sure. Shouldn’t take long. He strikes me as an organized guy.”

  “Oh, that he is,” Vince agreed. “You have no idea.”

  “Let’s go up, then. I want to get back and get into some dry clothes.”

  “You and me both.” With that, Vince pulled out Lee’s keys and opened the vestibule door. They collected Lee’s mail on the way through, then crossed the small lobby.

  “I wish there was a doorman or security guard,” Vince muttered.

  “In Bluewater Bay?” Pete snorted, then slapped a hand over his mouth, but Vince didn’t react right away. He was definitely mellower than normal. Because of Lee? Pete had to wonder.

  “What about Bluewater Bay?” Vince asked after a distracted moment.

  “Like that kind of security is a thing here, babe. It’s not New York or LA Besides, the front door and the stairwell doors are locked, and you need a key to activate the elevator. You can’t get much more secure in a building this size.”

  “We’re in, and we don’t live here. No one who does live here would know who the hell we are.”

  “We have keys.”

  Pete unlocked the door at the bottom of the stairwell, and they began the climb up the echoing glass and concrete silo.

  Vince followed, footsteps heavy. “And they haven’t seen Lee in almost two weeks. For all any of them know, Lee’s in a ditch someplace, and we stole his keys and are about to rob him blind.”

  “You have some very weird phobias, you know that?” Vince was a worrier. Since they had moved in together, some of that worry had calmed. Maybe living under the same roof helped. Vince knew where Pete was, and knowing Pete was okay made Vince okay. So did the increased serenity over the past few days stem from Lee being there too? Where Vince could keep an eye on him?

  “I wasn’t aware wanting people to be safe was a phobia.”

  Pete grinned at him, went up on tiptoe to peck his cheek, then dashed up the next flight ahead of him. “That’s just it,” he called back. “You don’t worry about ‘people.’ You worry about your people. It’s sweet.”

  “I don’t blame Lee one bit for not wanting to do these stairs while he’s hurt. They should be allowed to use the elevator.”

  “It’s a service elevator. It has those cage-door thingies. The landlord isn’t insured to let just anyone operate it. Someone crushes a finger, and he’s screwed.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Lee told me.” Pete grinned. “We talk, you know.”

  But maybe Vince hadn’t known. He’d spent a fair amount of the past three or four days with his head in his laptop and his earbuds in, writing up proposals and shifting numbers around to create the prettiest pictures he could for potential investors. Sometimes he got caught up in that world and forgot to look up as often as he should.

  Not that Pete was complaining. He liked having him there. He liked having them both there. He wouldn’t have thought he would have taken to Lee quite this fast. At first, he’d decided he’d just think about the idea, see how they got on, because Vince so clearly cared about the guy. He’d worried about him when he’d been kicked out of the Caruthers corporate apartment. He’d worried when Lee had been fired, and practically melted with relief when Blaire had taken them both on.

  And then, when it had become obvious Lee was a player, Vince had constantly muttered about who he’d been out with the night before and his many trips into Seattle or Port Angeles to go clubbing.

  Pete would have been jealous if not for the fact that he’d known going in that Vince had a polyamorous bent. Pete was the same, so he understood where Vince’s concern came from.

  As they stepped out of the stair shaft on the fourth floor, Vince let out a huff of relief. “I pity the people on the fifth floor,” he muttered.

  “Oh. There’s only one apartment up there. Some old rich dude who does get to use the elevator.”

  “Of course.” Vince brushed hair off his forehead and tried to straighten the tie he wasn’t wearing. He did that more when he was nervous or irritated, and Pete found it interesting that the tic had been mostly absent since he and Lee had returned from Vancouver.

  “Ready?” Vince asked as he slotted a key into the door.

  “As I’ll ever be.” Pete had to admit he was both curious and anxious to see what the irascible Lee Bradshaw called home. No doubt it was tidy, elegant, and upscale like Pete’s little house could never hope to be.

  Vince swung the door open, and they stepped inside.

  “Oh.” Pete gazed around. His heart flopped to his shoes. “Vince.”

  Vince said nothing.

  The door opened immediately into a kitchen/dining area. The kitchen had the usual stove, fridge, and a metal drain/sink arrangement with a rack above for dishes to drip dry. The rack held two dinner plates, two dessert plates, two bowls, two mugs, like he’d bought a set with his groceries or something. There was a tea towel in a silvery-gray material on the oven door handle, and a pot holder on a hook next to the microwave. A Keurig sat on the counter. The area was the most lived-in-looking part of the whole place.

  The living area was cluttered with half-unpacked boxes. A dining table and four chairs were lined up against the wall, the legs of the table still wrapped in bubble wrap and sitting on the floor in front of it.

  There was an expensive La-Z-Boy recliner in front of a huge LED television, but a rickety folding TV table next to it that held only a remote. Under the television, boxes labeled DVDs, CDs, Books and Living Room marched in a neat row along the baseboard.

  “I don’t even want to see the bedroom,” Pete whispered.

  Vince took his hand. “Come on,” he said grimly.

  They headed down the hall, past a pin-neat bathroom, to the bedroom.

  Pete was unsurprised to see the teak head and footboard of the bed leaning up under the window, the rails still in their packaging. More boxes were scattered through the room, some of them empty but not broken down. There was a sleeping bag pulled neatly straight over the mattress and box spring sitting on the floor in the center of the room. A clock radio and half-empty water glass sat on a tray on the carpet.

  Pete went to the closet and opened the door. It held an empty wire hanger, an ironing board, and the sack for the sleeping bag folded into a precise square and sitting on the shelf. Otherwise, it was barren.

  Vince swung out of the room and toward the spare bedroom.

  “Holy fuck!” he exclaimed.

  Pete went running.

  “I guess we know where his priorities are, then,” Vince muttered.

  The room was miniscule. As a bedroom, it might have grudgingly made space for a single bed and a dresser.

  As a walk-in closet, it was glorious: well lit, with a chair at one end, and a floor-to-ceiling mirror between two tall shelves of cubbies for shoes. Suits filled one wall of racks, shirts and casual clothes bracketed the window on the other. The far end of the room had a dresser and another series of cubbies, these ones filled with impeccably folded sweaters.

  “Wow.” Pete let out a breath.

  “Let’s get what he needs,” Vince said, moving forward.

  “Vince?”

  “Yeah, babe?”

  “He really needs us.”

  Vince stopped to look at Pete, head cocked. “Why do you say that?”

  “He’s lived here how long?”

  Vince shrugged. “Since Oscar tossed him out of the company place. Ab
out two weeks before Blaire gave us jobs.”

  “So. Upwards of eight months.”

  “Sure. Yeah. Seems right.”

  “And he hasn’t unpacked anything but his clothes.”

  Vince spun in a circle in the center of the room. “Babe. Do you see how many clothes he has? That could have taken a while.”

  “Vince. Look at this place. He created the perfect room. For his clothes. His mattress is on the floor, and he has one place to sit in the whole damn apartment. He doesn’t bring people back here. He doesn’t use that kitchen. There is nothing of him in this place. Just his clothes.”

  “He is all about his clothes.”

  “Because they keep him safe.”

  “You’re stretching.”

  “Am I? He packed for what was supposed to be a two-night stay in Vancouver.”

  “Yes.”

  “He has yet to run out of clean socks and underwear.”

  “So? He thought ahead.”

  “So he packed for being away longer, in case something happened. He packed for a what-if scenario in which he needed more than one work suit and one set of traveling clothes. He packed like a person who is used to having the rug pulled out from under him. That’s not normal.”

  “Maybe.” Vince’s pretty eyes narrowed slightly. His thinking face.

  “And this place. He took out all his trappings. His shell that lets him be who the world sees, but in his own spaces, everything is blank.”

  “Yeah.” Vince was frowning now.

  “You don’t have to worry. We are going to fix it. But you have to see this for what it is.”

  “We don’t really know what it is, do we?”

  “No. I guess we don’t. But we know what it isn’t.”

  “And that is?”

  “This is not the home of a happy man.” Pete gazed around the sumptuous closet. “I want to keep him, Vince.”

  When he looked back to his lover, ready to plead his case, Vince was smiling at him. “What? You expected me to argue?”

  Used to having just about limitless choices, Lee wasn’t sure he was satisfied with the outfit he had on. It felt . . . flimsy. He’d chosen the best clothes from the assortment Vince and Pete had brought back from his place, and counted it a blessing that neither of them asked about his dismal apartment. Pete had helped him hang everything up and offered him a drawer in the dresser so he didn’t have to live out of his suitcase. Lee hadn’t had the heart at the time to remind Pete he’d eventually have to go home. It was almost like Pete didn’t want to send him back there.

  Lee tipped his head to one side and studied his reflection in the mirror. He had on a pair of gray, subtly plaid trousers coupled with his favorite, deep-teal dress shirt and a soft, calf-skin bomber jacket. He looked good. Put together. So why did he feel so uncomfortable? So . . . off-center?

  Carefully he smoothed down the front of his shirt. The polished cotton was still cool to his touch. His watch glinted in the morning light. His hair was glossy and swept obediently off to the side. He’d insisted Pete needn’t have bought him a whole pharmacy of organic grooming products, but then he’d been tempted by the subtle scent of the soap and had ended up trying most of the items out. The pomade had sold him, though he hadn’t wanted to embarrass them by mentioning they had left their lube in the bag with the rest.

  He was still stuck on that thought when there was a brief knock on his open door.

  “You ready?” Vince stuck his head into the room. “Pete’s got a coffee to go for you in the kitchen. He’ll make you take something to eat too, so just be nice and take it, okay?”

  Lee stared at him. “Do you really think I’m that much of a dick?” It infuriated him that Vince’s smile was so mild even while he crossed his arms and gave Lee a look.

  “This is his way. You might as well accept it. He care takes.”

  What? No answer to his deliberately confrontational question? No. And no judgment either, so maybe stop being an ass.

  Censure would have left Lee feeling more comfortable, given him an out to keep his guard up. He frowned at his reflection and brushed at a nonexistent bit of fluff on his coat sleeve. That was the problem. There wasn’t enough polish or glamour in these simple clothes to deflect Vince being nice. And if Lee couldn’t be a defensive jerk for no reason, the only other tactic was retreat. “What does it matter?” He sighed and let his hands drop. “I’m going back to my place after today anyway.”

  Vince raised his eyebrows and smirked. “You can try.”

  “What? Is he going to keep me captive?”

  Vince chuckled. “Better than that. He’s going to keep cooking for you, doing your laundry, and making you that sweet coffee you love so much.”

  “I’m not a pet who followed you home.”

  Vince said nothing, but his smile was more knowing than the last.

  “You did tell him he can’t keep me, right?”

  This smile was downright amused. Vince’s eyes practically danced as he took in Lee’s appearance.

  “What?”

  “Feel free to tell him you don’t want to be kept.” He’d been leaning on the doorframe, and now he stood. “Come on. Get your coffee and breaky.” He turned to leave, and Lee figured he was done, but he called back from the hallway, “You look fantastic, by the way. Those slacks are stunning.”

  Lee stared at the empty doorway. Stunning? What the hell?

  “Vince?” Lee hurried out of the room in his wake. “What did you say?”

  He heard another chuckle, but when he reached the kitchen, Pete was smiling up at Vince and fiddling with the rolled sleeve of his shirt. They were standing very close, and Pete’s cheeks were pretty in a shade of pink that only accentuated his creamy skin and animated expression.

  Mortified he’d thought Vince had been talking to him, Lee averted his gaze and headed for the door, praying he could make it outside before either of them noticed he was there.

  “Oh! Morning, Lee!” Pete’s greeting was vibrant and impossible to ignore without coming off a complete dickhead, so Lee turned.

  “Hey.” He waved, then dropped his hand, stuffing it into his pocket as if hiding it would make anyone forget he had just waved like a complete dork.

  “I made your coffee.” Pete held out a to-go mug. “Vince said you like a good French roast with some skim milk and brown sugar first thing, so.” He waved the mug at him. “Since this is your first day back, I figured it was time to do that.”

  “He did?” Lee shot Vince a look.

  Vince shrugged. “I pay attention.”

  “Apparently.” Puzzled, Lee studied Vince. Normally, he picked up his own drink in the morning on his way in. So how had Vince known? It wasn’t like he’d rejected the lattes Pete had been making for him so far.

  Lee accepted the mug Pete was still holding toward him, and took a discreet sniff. The heady aroma of dark, rich brew seeped into his brain, and he sighed. “Nice.”

  Pete’s grin was nothing short of radiant.

  “I also made you a wrap.” He picked up a tightly wrapped burrito. The whole-wheat tortilla held what looked like scrambled egg, tomato, and avocado.

  “Thanks.” Lee took the wrap and sniffed it, less discreetly this time. He wasn’t a huge fan of eggs.

  “Tofu,” Pete said, voice soft. He’d shoved his hands into his back jeans pockets and was glancing nervously between Vince and the floor at his own feet.

  “Smells good.” Lee’s throat tightened a bit as Pete’s cheeks flushed. He shoved the end of the burrito in his mouth and took a far-too-big bite. There was nothing else he could say until he’d chewed and swallowed.

  “Oh wow. That is good,” he blurted when he’d gotten the first bite down.

  Pete’s flush deepened, but his smile returned, so wide and bright Lee forgot all about eating or drinking. In fact he could barely breathe as their gazes met. Unaware he’d moved, Lee suddenly found himself right in Pete’s space. Inches separated them, and still, he couldn’t l
ook away.

  “Hey.” Pete smiled up at him. “That good, huh?”

  Lee couldn’t even process a reply. Pete’s gaze was so direct, so sweetly intense that Lee had no words. No thoughts, really, just impulse, and then he was leaning in—he wasn’t sure for what—when Pete’s hand pressed against his chest.

  Fixated on Pete’s mouth, Lee watched Pete’s tongue dart out to wet his lips, then disappear again. Warmth spread out from Pete’s palm and down from the back of Lee’s neck, and he abruptly realized Vince had also moved and was standing extremely close, his hand on Lee’s nape.

  “Lee,” Vince said, so soft, so careful, like he was afraid Lee might spook.

  “I—” Lee tried to back up, but his shoulder contacted Vince’s chest and he was trapped. “Pete, I’m sorry.” He spun, only making a quarter turn to find himself facing Vince. “I shouldn’t— I have to—”

  “Stop.” Vince’s voice was low, the word stretched into a soothing drawl. It sent a thrill skittering up Lee’s spine, and that was the biggest shock of all. He waited for the familiar wash of panic, but it was conspicuously absent.

  Lee opened his mouth, but Vince had already stepped back. His face was neutral, his gaze steady. “We should get a move on,” he reminded Lee, voice still a balm. “Blaire said nine sharp.”

  “Yeah. I—” Lee glanced back at Pete, who smiled and made the same abbreviated, dorky wave Lee had earlier.

  “I’ll see you when you get home,” Pete said, like it was the most obvious thing in the universe.

  “Okay.” And like that, Lee was caught. So much for his plan to go to his own apartment. He shook his head. “The hell,” he muttered.

  Vince clapped him on the shoulder. “Told you,” he crooned, so close to Lee’s ear he felt the breathy soft passage of the words on their way straight into his blood and directly south.

  What the hell is happening to me?

  Lee had a system. He worked hard, did a good job, and took his paycheck. He paid his bills, bought his clothes, and minded his own business. It worked. It didn’t involve other people. It kept him safe. When he needed to scratch an itch, he went into Seattle or Port Angeles. No peeing where he slept. Golden rule.